


Rich Kid's Blues

by Lonov



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Barista! Isaac, Coffeeshop AU, M/M, New York AU, Wealthy! Scott
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-14
Updated: 2013-07-14
Packaged: 2017-12-20 04:45:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,623
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/883097
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lonov/pseuds/Lonov
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Isaac is a down-on-his-luck employee at Hale's Coffee House. Scott can't seem to stop putting money in the tip jar.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rich Kid's Blues

"Babe," Erica murmured, breathing cigarette smoke into his face, "you need to get out more."

 

"I am out," Isaac informed her. He gestured to the expanse of tables and cushioned chairs around them. "See? I'm working. It's a thing people do when they don't have rich parents to buy them shiny cars and expensive clothes."

 

"Must be rough," Erica said as she studied him with heavy-lidded eyes and took another drag of her cigarette.

 

A group of people got up to leave a table across the small coffee shop, and Isaac moved in to clear away the garbage left behind. The shop was completely silent now, save for the sounds of beeps and engines coming from outside; Isaac's boss had left him in charge an hour ago, and he and Erica were alone.

 

She watched as he threw away scraps of croissant. "I know you're going to bite my head off for trying to give you charity, or whatever, but we only need to go shopping together one time, and I could fix you up with the cutest wardrobe—"

 

"I'm not interested," Isaac said. "Okay? It's been a long day. I'm tired. Some old dude yelled at me before because I was taking too long with his drink, and I'm pretty sure he stole money from the tip jar. There're like thirty cents left in there now. And Derek has been increasing my shift so much lately that, by this point, I'm lucky if I find time to do laundry so my clothes are all _clean._ And this shirt isn't, actually, I think." He lifts the fabric off his chest and sniffs it. "Yeah, nope. That doesn't smell right."

 

Erica looked unperturbed. "You're a whiner lately, babe."

 

"I'm exhau _—"_

 

"I know you're exhausted,” she informed him. “That's why I've been hatching a plan all morning."

 

"Oh, great."

 

"The plan," Erica continued, as if Isaac hadn't spoken, "is to have you call your sexy little boss Derek and tell him you can't come in tomorrow. Then you will sleep in until noon and come to my place, at which point we are going to hang out, get drunk, and go to a party like normal people our age. Capisce?"

 

Isaac rubbed the back of his head. "That sounds... doable."

 

"Of course it does. Remember back in high school when we used to just, like, hang out by the lake drinking cheap booze and talking about things?"

 

He remembered. That was before her mother had married a multi-millionaire and flung her family into the wealth.

 

Isaac had always thought he had it hard growing up; he had always put his stake in graduating high school and moving on to better things in life. But by the time he finally reached that long-awaited day of graduation, he had realized two things: one, he had no money, no real family, and no means of supporting himself; and two, Erica was moving across the country to New York, and Isaac was going to be left alone.

 

At the age of eighteen Isaac starter work at a Starbucks in Long Valley; a year later he was able to muster up enough money to fly himself cross-country. It had taken two nights sleeping in her lavish Upper-West Side apartment for him to realize he needed a job and a crappy apartment as soon as possible. Isaac had never liked rich people until Erica had become one, but just because she was his best friend in the world didn't mean he had to wave to her doorman and sleep on velvet and pretend like he belonged in a world of people spent enough money on a pair of shoes to feed a thousand starving children.

 

A week after he came to New York he found Derek, the owner of Hale’s Coffee House. Appreciative of the money and the salary, Isaac had taken the job full-time. A month later he managed to find a cheap apartment in upper Manhattan that seemed relatively safe, if he discounted the occasional drug deal that happened outside.

 

"Yeah," Isaac said in response to Erica's question. "Why, do you miss it? I know you don't miss the cheap booze."

 

She let out a peal of laughter. "No, no, I don't miss that. I do so love my Henri Jayer," she winked at him. Isaac shook his head and fought the smile that was threatening its way onto his face. "But I miss our conversations, you know? We used to talk about just, like, the stupidest shit. Like how you heard some knock-knock joke that day, and it would be so dumb we would have to laugh, or how my mother was trying to woo some new country club guy, or how good Jackson Whittemore looked in a suit at the Spring formal."

 

"He was gorgeous," Isaac pointed out unnecessarily.

 

"Oh, I know," Erica agreed. "And he was all we needed to talk about. No worrying about your rent, or if my mom was spending all her money on prescription drugs, or where we're gonna end up in twenty years if we can't get our shit together and go to fucking college or something."

 

“Yeah, well,” Isaac said. "I haven't seen my dad in four years and things still aren’t better. I'm starting to think it's just me, you know? Maybe I'm supposed to be poor and lonely for the rest of my life."

 

Erica put out her cigarette with the heel of an expensive boot and discarded the remains so Derek wouldn't find them later. It must be a good omen, Isaac thought, that she hadn't set the fire alarms off. "If you really thought you were supposed to be lonely, you wouldn't have come all the way from Beacon Hills to New York to be with me," she said, wrapping an arm around him. "I gotta go, babe, I told Boyd I’d meet him at five. But I want to see you at my apartment tomorrow at one P.M. sharp. Okay? No excuses."

 

"No excuses," Isaac agreed, burying his head in her hair. "If I'm not there, assume Derek smelled cigarettes and killed me for letting you smoke inside."

 

"Will do," Erica said. A couple walked into the shop, and Isaac moved behind the counter to serve them. "He could kill with just his eyebrows, though, so I'm not sure I'll have much of a chance against him. Also, you should probably tell Derek you can't work Sunday, either, because we're going to get you wasted out of your mind, and the aftermath of that is not going to be pretty—"

 

The shop door closed with a jingle. Isaac gave the customers an apologetic look.

 

******

 

Derek spent a few minutes arguing with Isaac in an attempt to get him to change his mind, until Isaac finally pointed out that he hadn't had a day off in three weeks, and there actually _were_ other employees. Despite Danny having already agreed to come in to work for Isaac for the next two days, Derek was unwilling to give up his best employee for so long.

 

"Danny never gets to cappuccinos right," Derek insisted. "Neither does Heather."

 

"Derek." Isaac finally resorted to pleading. " _Please._ I’ll work extra hours next week, I just really need these two days off."

 

With a lot of begrudged mumbling, Derek allowed him the days. After a silent dance around his one-room apartment, Isaac crashed onto his bed. He fell asleep still in his work uniform, without a care in the world for the chocolate stains still on it, and managed to sleep soundly for a full eight hours.

 

******

Somehow Isaac did manage to sleep in until noon the next day. By the time he had gotten breakfast and taken the subway downtown, it was twelve-thirty. Erica opened her apartment door with a grandiose gesture.

 

"Welcome, welcome," she said, guiding him into the kitchen. A freshly-brewed coffee pot sat on the counter; she knew him too well. "How excited are you to have today off?"

 

Isaac began, "I mean—"

 

Erica cut him off with a buzzer sound. "Nope, wrong. The correct answer is 'very excited, my darling best friend.'"

 

He opened his mouth to respond, but she held the coffee pot out of his reach and gave him an expectant look. Isaac rolled his eyes. "I’m very excited, my darling best friend. Now please hand me the coffee pot before I deicide this was all a bad idea."

 

"You're no fun," Erica informed him, but she nevertheless handed over the coffee. "And that whole 'too brooding to have a good time' look works better on Derek. Anyway, you can stop acting like you don't want to be here. We're going to a wild party tonight, baby," she winked at him. "It's at this huge Upper West Side penthouse owned by some guy Boyd knows, and—"

 

"Wait, he's friends with Boyd?" Isaac asked, alarm bells going off in his head. He'd met some of Boyd's friends before, and they were all carbon copies of the same spoiled-bachelor stereotype. "Jesus, Erica, please tell me this isn't another idiot rich guy who thinks he's 'giving back to the community' by throwing parties every weekend!"

 

The look on her face was answer enough. Isaac groaned.

 

"Just listen," she pleaded. "Look, I know last time we went to one of those parties you didn't really like it—"

 

"I left after the first half-an-hour, completely sober, because a group of them were talking about paying two homeless people to fight."

 

Erica winced. "Regardless. That was a while ago, okay? And I don't even know who this guy is. Boyd says he isn't that bad."

 

Isaac shook his head.

 

"Come on, please?" She whined. "Please, please, please? I won't make you do it again. And I'll stop smoking at the coffee shop!"

 

With her pout and her puppy-dog eyes, Isaac knew he never really stood a chance. He huffed out a breath, "Fine."

 

Erica squealed and wrapped him in a hug. "I knew you'd say yes! We're gonna have such a good time! Just... one more thing.” Isaac raised an eyebrow. “And I'm not doing this for you, okay, I'm doing it for me, because I don't want people to think I voluntarily spend time with someone who looks like he's still wearing the clothes he got at the Salvation Army when he was twelve."

 

Isaac couldn't find it in himself to be offended; it was so predictably Erica, all the harsh statement with none of the heat behind it. He collapsed onto her living room couch as she disappeared into her bedroom. A few moments later she emerged with a Saks Fifth Avenue bag.

 

Inside was a crisp navy sweater and the kind of trendy dark wash jeans that were supposed to look worn but actually cost more than Isaac was comfortable saying out loud.

 

"Just for tonight," Erica said, experimentally wrapping a navy scarf around his neck. Before he could protest, she pointed him toward a mirror above the couch and pulled up the corners of his mouth with her fingers. He had to admit he looked good. Minus Erica's hands all over his face.

 

This was so stupid. He didn't need nice clothes and he didn't need to go to the party of some typical rich boy—but it wouldn't hurt anyone, and Erica was pouting at him again, and Isaac really had to start building up immunity to her puppy-dog eyes.

 

With a sigh he tightened the scarf around his neck and kissed his friend on her cheek in thanks.

 

*******

 

They spent the rest of the day talking the way Erica wanted them to—about people in their lives, their goals, their daydreams, anything to remind them that things didn't have to be so difficult now, just because they were supposed to be adults. They sipped enough of Erica's expensive wine that by the time they arrived at the party they were both beyond tipsy.

 

Erica ran off to find Boyd amid the numerous people gyrating on the open floor. The dubstep music was already giving Isaac a headache; he was so used to the steady indie songs Derek insisted on playing in the coffee shop that the music now pulsating loudly from the speakers assaulted his ears.

 

For lack of a better thing to do, he made his way over to a mini-bar off to the side of the dance floor. It was hard to imagine living in a place like this—with enough money to not only afford a personal bar but also a bartender, handing out free drinks, which Isaac gladly took—and enough space for a dance floor in the middle of the living room. There was so much space Isaac wouldn't have even known what to put in it—furniture? A rug for the floor? Weird sculptures? The owner apparently knew, if the art on the walls was any indication; Isaac let his gaze float around the room and noticed an obvious preference for paintings of wolves...

 

"That one's my favorite," came a voice next to him, and Isaac jumped.

 

"What?" He spun around. A guy about Isaac's age was standing at the bar beside him, sipping a drink and giving Isaac a playful smile.

 

"The painting you were just looking at," the guy explained. "With the wolves howling at the moon. Of all the ones here, that's my favorite."

 

"Oh." Isaac wasn't a champion at making small talk, and he had never been good at speaking to cute boys. He wished Erica were here. "I like the one over there, the two wolves sleeping next to each other."

 

Fuck, he was drunk. As long as he didn't tell this guy his entire life story, like he was prone to doing, everything would be fine.

 

"That one's my second favorite," the guy said, leaning into Isaac to whisper in his ear. "I like how close they are."

 

"So do I," Isaac said. He knocked back another drink.  "Want to go somewhere to sit?"

 

The stranger's smile doubled into a grin. "Yeah. I'm Scott, by the way."

 

Scott led the way into a smaller room with less people. They sat on an available sofa, and he looked at Isaac expectantly. He tilted his head. "Do I get to know your name?"

 

"Isaac. Do you come here a lot?"

 

Scott laughed loudly and threw an arm around where Isaac sat on the sofa. "That's a good pick-up line," he supplied.

 

"No, wait—I just meant, with the wolves," Isaac hastened to explain, slightly mortified. "You had a favorite painting, I thought you must come here often... Wow, that does sound bad."

 

"It does," Scott agreed. He was still smiling, and it made Isaac wonder if he was missing a punch line.  "I would have still fallen for it. And... yeah, you could say I'm here pretty often. But I've never seen you before."

 

"I don't like these... rich people parties. I don't belong around people with personal bars and, and art collections and, like, money, I don't know," Isaac said.

 

Scott cocked his head. "Rich people parties," he repeated, taking a large swig of his drink. "Hmm. Where are you from?"

 

"I'm from California," Isaac said. His hand was on Scott's thigh, but he didn't remember putting it there. Idly, he moved his palm in circles; he could feel the tight, coiled muscles underneath. He wanted to see them up close, without clothing, and touch the skin with his tongue. A shock of heat flew to Isaac's crotch, and he was happy to know he wasn't yet drunk to the point where he couldn't perform.

 

Scott didn't seem to realize the direction of Isaac's thoughts, but he did lean into his touch. "I mean, what kind of family?"

 

"Bad family," Isaac mumbled. "Dad used to hit me. Everyone else—everyone else died. Why?"

 

"I..." Scott looked curious, like he couldn't quite figure out what he was supposed to say but he didn't want the conversation to end. "Are your parents wealthy?"

 

Isaac laughed loudly—louder than he should, probably, because now they were alone in the room and cutting through the silence felt wrong. He leaned toward Scott so he could whisper in his ear. "I've been working in Hale’s Coffee House for the past year, does that seem like something wealthy people do? This sweater costs probably more than my apartment does. My friend got it for me." He glanced around.  "I don't know where she went. Have you seen Erica? She was looking for Boyd."

 

"Ah," Scott murmured, as if to say, _now I understand_. "No, I haven't seen them around... but I wasn't looking. I've been busy here with you."

 

He tilted his head to look at Isaac, but Isaac hadn't moved his face back from when he'd leaned forward before, and now their faces were inches apart. The smell of alcohol hit Isaac's nose as Scott breathed hot air onto his face.

 

"Fuck," Scott said, and then they were kissing.

 

There was no build-up: as soon as their lips touched it started hot and open-mouthed. Scott tasted like vodka and cranberry juice, and Isaac found himself seeking out more of the flavor as he deepened the kiss. Scott's lips were soft and warm and perfect, and Isaac wanted nothing more than to lose himself in them forever.

 

There was a hand at the back of Isaac's head, and it pulled at his curls as Scott moved his kisses down to Isaac's neck and throat. Isaac’s whole body was on fire, waves of heat emulating from his crotch, cock hard and pressed painfully against the expensive fabric of his jeans.

 

He moved his hand further up Scott's thigh, so it ghosted under the outline of his cock, and he was rewarded with such a lust-filled moan that Isaac couldn't tease anymore—he was desperate to touch Scott.

 

Scott was apparently in the same mindset, pressing sloppy kisses on Isaac's collarbone as he helped Isaac unzip his jeans. When Isaac palmed him, Scott hissed, "fuck, yes," and his body looked so gorgeous spread out on the couch that Isaac had to kiss him again.

 

He was really planning on giving a fantastic handjob, too, until a female voice said, "Wow, Scott, it looks like you made some changes around here," and Isaac was rather rudely pushed off of what he was beginning to see was a very nice cock.

 

"Lydia?" Scott asked, struggling to button his jeans over the bulge in his underwear. "Allison? What are you doing here?"

 

With a heavy sigh Isaac finally turned to see the women Scott was talking to. A girl with ringlets of strawberry blonde hair stood with a smirk on her face next to a tall brunette who stared at the ceiling looking unbelievably uncomfortable.

 

The brunette pulled at the other woman's arm. "Um, Scott, we were just going say hi, but I can see that you're busy, so," she tugged her friend away. "We'll just talk later, okay?"

 

She left the room. The other girl gave Isaac a once-over. She nodded her head in approval. "Good choice," she told Scott. Isaac was too annoyed by his blue balls to defend himself against the objectification. "I like what you did with the living room, by the way. The yellow looks much better than the blue. If you're going to keep those hideous wolf paintings up you may as well try to make something look good around here, right?" She turned to leave the room, wagging her fingers at them. "Bye, now! Hope we didn't interrupt!"

 

For a moment Scott stared after her. Then he buried his face in his hands. "Shit," he muttered. With a sheepish grin he looked at Isaac. "Did that completely kill the mood?"

 

Isaac couldn't think: his head was spinning from the drink and the revelation. "This is _your_ apartment?"

 

"Uh," Scott said. For possibly the first time all night, he wasn't smiling. "Well... yeah. Yeah, it is."

 

"So this is, what, some kind of, of game to you?" Isaac asked in disbelief. "Listen to the poor kid talk about how his family sucks and how he doesn't belong at these parties, and just—laugh at him and see how far it goes before he catches on to the joke?"

 

Scott looked horrified and he opened his mouth to speak, but Isaac cut him off before he could defend himself. "You're just—you're just like all of them, with your stupidly big house and your stupid sexy face, I—"

 

Scott brightened. "You think my face is sexy?"

 

"I'm drunk," Isaac said. "I just... I need to go home. I'm going home."

 

"Come on, Isaac, don't leave—"

 

"Don't fucking condescend to me, okay, I know all about people like you. You think I don't see people like you every day of my life, thinking you deserve whatever you want just because you want it?" Isaac knew wealthy people: he knew Erica's mom, how she'd golddug her way into some else's pocket; he knew her husband, too, because he'd started a fist fight with Isaac’s father at the Beacon Hills bar once and then threatened to sue when he lost. Every day Isaac saw more and more spoiled kids come into Hale’s Coffee House, give their orders like they were doing Isaac a favor, snap their fingers when it took longer than they wanted it to, and pay for a three dollar coffee with a hundred-dollar bill.

 

Oh, Isaac knew wealthy people, because to know one was to know them all. He wasn't sure what he was expecting from Scott—he was at the party, he was dressed well, he looked just like the person Isaac had allowed Erica to make him for the night—but looking around his huge penthouse apartment solidified any doubts Isaac had about him.

 

He didn't belong in this room with Scott, and he needed to leave.

 

"I wasn't trying to... to have you just because I want you," Scott said seriously. “Isaac, I thought you wanted me, too."

 

"I don't," Isaac said, grabbing his scarf where it had gotten stuffed between the couch cushions and trying to ignore the pounding in his head. "'Bye, Scott."

 

Scott looked heartbroken. "Okay," he finally said, skating a hand through his head. "Okay. 'Bye."

 

If nothing else, Isaac was getting better at saying no to puppy-eyes.

 

It only took him a few minutes to fine Erica and Boyd chatting happily with a group of people. On his way to find them he saw the girls who had walked in on him and Scott—he couldn't think of their names, couldn't think of much with his mind swimming in alcohol and the painful ache left in his groin by not getting off—standing beside a boy with a buzz cut. The strawberry-blonde girl gave Isaac a smirk.

 

When he did find his friends, he took Erica by the arm. "This has been a disaster. I'm going home."

 

Erica frowned. "Are you sure? I haven't seen you all night, babe, where did you run off to?"

 

"Nothing, I'll—we'll talk tomorrow. I'm gonna go."

 

There was no point in arguing. Erica knew that. "Do you need me to take you home?"

 

"I'll be fine," Isaac said. He could feel himself starting to sober up even as Boyd handed him a plastic cup of water. He thanked him, said goodbye to Erica, and left.

 

On his way out the door he looked back once, because he was curious and still a little drunk, and noticed Scott glancing around the crowd, searching for someone.

 

******

 

The next morning Isaac awoke to an incredible headache and an embarrassing recollection of the previous night.

 

He wasn't really sure what people did the morning after hooking up with a gorgeous guy and then yelling at him for being rich, but he decided the best course of action would be to push it to the back of his mind and never think about it again.

 

This turned out to be somewhat difficult, so Isaac busied himself in whatever ways he could find. Over the last three weeks he'd worked more than any other employee at the shop, including Derek, and the mess in his apartment was proof of his late nights and early mornings. There were scattered empty boxes of cereal and hot pocket wrappers around, clothes strewn out on the floor. It hadn't even occurred to Isaac until that moment how badly he needed this day off.

 

By the time Isaac had returned from the laundry mat and begun to clean his dingy apartment, Erica was awake and desperate for details about the night before. She wanted to know why he'd run out early, and squealed when he confessed to the rather embarrassing situation of being walked in on with his hands down Scott's pants and then yelling at Scott moments later.

 

Now that he was thinking about it, Isaac was annoyed again. They had even talked about the wolf paintings, about which one was Scott's favorite, and yet the guy had never thought to say, "yeah, that's my favorite painting, but actually I like them all because I picked them out myself and, by the way, this is my obnoxiously lavish apartment you’re in, my booze you're getting drunk off, and my pants you're about to stick your hands down."

 

And, okay, maybe Scott didn't really know that last part was going to happen. It wasn't like Isaac hadn't wanted to touch him at the time. But Isaac didn’t like to give things to rich people when they already had everything else on a silver fucking platter.

 

"Honey, you're brooding," Erica informed him. They were talking over the phone and she couldn't see his face, but she could still read him like a book. "Forget about it and move on. It's not like you're going to see any of those people again, anyway. And just so you know, Allison and Lydia are pretty cool—I talked to them last night and they said they were happy to see Scott with someone else. Apparently he and Allison were dating for a while, but after they broke up he was kind of wrecked, and he hasn't really cared about anyone since then. Except for last night, because according to them he spent all night searching for 'that random hot guy he was making out with,' which I totally didn't realize was you. But I mean, apart from anything else, I think we can both appreciate the aesthetics of Scott McCall's perfect body and congratulate you on tapping that."

 

Leave it to Erica to make that the bright side. "I didn't really get to tap it.”

 

"Maybe not," Erica conceded, "but now you have really hot jerk-off material for, like, the next month."

 

Isaac laughed. "Yeah, you're right. At least something good came out of this."

 

"And if you ever see him around again, now you know he'd be up for it."

 

"Um, yeah," Isaac said. "Except, where would I ever see him again? I'm not going back to one of those parties. And we were both pretty drunk. In the light of day, if I dressed like I normally am, he wouldn't look twice at me. And if he was dressed like _he_ normally is, I wouldn't look at him, either."

 

"Because he has style and his shirts are all clean?"

 

"Because his shirts cost more than my rent for a month and someone else cleans his clothes _for_ him," Isaac corrected.

 

Erica sighed, "You don't know that, Isaac."

 

"What, you think he does his own laundry? You think he cleans his own house? No offense, Err, but I don't know one rich person who does. If he walked into my apartment right now—it's like a different fucking planet than his."

 

Erica was silent for a moment. Then she said, "You're stupid." Isaac scoffed. "You're stupid if you think anyone would not like you just because you can't afford expensive cars and your parents aren't philanthropists."

 

Not knowing how to respond, Isaac said nothing, choosing instead to pick at a loose string in his bedspread. He hated when Erica chided him. She was always right.

 

"And for your information, Isaac, you're fucking gorgeous, and any guy who wouldn't want to get with you is an idiot."

 

"Right," Isaac muttered. "I mean—it doesn't even matter. I'm never seeing him again."

 

"Whatever. We're in a city full of sexy men. Some of them are rich. You're going to need to get over it," Erica shouted to be heard over a loud beep and the sound of two people fighting over a taxi. "I have to go. Don't work too hard on your day off, okay?"

 

By the time Isaac went to bed his apartment was clean, his clothes were folded neatly away, and he'd actually managed to stock up his tiny refrigerator with somewhat-healthy food for the week. As he drifted off to sleep he felt accomplished, and considered it a good omen for the rest of the week.

 

******

 

Isaac fell back into the work grind easily over the next week, so that by the time Friday rolled around he was operating on autopilot. He was working the morning shift on a triple espresso, and so that when the breakfast crowd came and went he was animated enough that his smiles were genuine.

 

An elderly couple had come in before holding hands, and the old woman had read every item off the menu as her husband squinted in vain at the words, and watching them revolve around each other had made Isaac's morning. Every once in a while some amazing customers would remind Isaac that he actually liked his employment at Hale's, and even though he was currently cleaning up a spill Danny had left on the counter, he didn't mind working for the rest of the day.

 

Someone cleared his throat behind him; Isaac turned with a friendly smile ready on his face. "Welcome to Hale's Coffee House, how can I help... you..." he trailed off, eyes wide.

 

The customer suggested, "you could give me your number?" and Isaac's throat went dry.

 

"Scott?" He asked, barely able to believe his eyes. "What are you doing here?"

 

Scott rubbed the back of his neck, that same stupid, sheepish smile Isaac remembered on his face. "Um... buying coffee?"

 

Isaac stared at him. It was surreal, seeing Scott in front of him—in his place of employment, for Christ's sake—asking for his number.

 

And Scott... in full lighting and a sober mind, he looked better than Isaac remembered. He looked like a fucking model, with his tan skin and his uneven jaw, his playful eyes and full lips. Isaac couldn't help staring at those lips: he had kissed them, had bitten them, tasted them, slipped his tongue past them.

 

Suddenly, Isaac found it difficult to breathe.

 

"You're buying coffee," Isaac repeated. There was a blush spreading over his cheeks; he could feel it. "All right. What kind of coffee would you like?"

 

Scott glanced at the menu and cocked his head. "What's a frappé?"

 

"It's like a frozen coffee drink with flavoring. Frappé means 'to beat' in French. It has a few different definitions, really, but mostly it means hitting something.” Fuck, Isaac sounded like an idiot, babbling away as if he was an expert just because he got an A in high school French classes.

 

"You speak French?" Scott bit his lip. "What else can you say?"

 

He was flirting.

 

This was bad.

 

Deciding to ignore his question, Isaac said, "People usually like the frappés. The iced vanilla coffee is good, too."

 

Another customer came in behind Scott, and Isaac took his order while Scott pretended to look over the menu but rather obviously looked over Isaac instead. The customer left and Scott approached the counter again.

 

Isaac stared at him. "Know what you want yet?"

 

Scott shook his head, still smiling. Isaac was starting to think he never stopped. "What do you usually get?"

 

"Black coffee," Isaac said. It was one of the reasons Erica was always calling him a vagrant.

 

"Then I'll have that."

 

Isaac flicked an eyebrow. "I don't think you'll like it. It's pretty acerbic."

 

"So's this guy I met the other night," Scott shrugged, "but I'm still planning on asking him out in the next five minutes."

 

Isaac pursed his lips. "One black coffee. What size do you want?"

 

"I prefer a little larger than average, usually, but I'm told it's more about the motion of the ocean than the size of the boat."

 

"Oh my God," Isaac said, rubbing a hand over his face.

 

"In this case, your tallest cup is fine. I tend to like tall things, you know. Tall cups, tall people..."

 

This wasn't really happening.

 

Could he _be_ any less subtle?

 

"One large black coffee," Isaac said, moving toward the coffee machine and away from Scott as quickly as he could, "coming right up."

 

When the cup was filled he placed it on the counter and avoided Scott's gaze. "That will be two dollars and twenty-seven cents." He was expecting Scott to pay with a huge bill, like every other person of wealth who came through the store.

 

Instead, he reached into his pocket, pulled put his wallet, and proceeded to count out two dollars and twenty-seven cents in exact change.

 

He took a gulp of coffee. "Aw, man," he said, scrunching his face. "This stuff is nasty."

 

"Hmm," Isaac said noncommittally. "Have a nice day."

 

Scott just looked at him.

 

"'Bye, now."

 

He kept looking.

 

In complete exasperation, Isaac moved away to help a new customer, a woman who ordered organic tea. When he turned back, he noted with relief that Scott was gone.

 

Isaac poured the woman's tea and set it on the counter. "One seventy-nine, please."

 

She handed him two dollars, then put her returned change in the tip jar. Isaac opened his mouth to thank her and instead made an embarrassing squealing noise—next to her twenty-one cents and a few dollars that had been there this morning, there was a fifty dollar bill.

 

Isaac had no doubt in his mind who put it there.

******

 

For some completely unfathomable reason, Scott was back the next day.

 

“How did you even know I work here?" Isaac demanded.

 

"You told me," Scott said nonchalantly, as if stalking love interests as their workplace was a commonality for him.

 

"I did?" Isaac wracked his brain. The other night Scott had asked him about his family… and Isaac had told him about his tragic life story, and still more tragic financial situation. "Shit."

 

"I didn't like the coffee yesterday," Scott said. "Can I have something with sugar today?"

 

Isaac shrugged. "It's your order, do whatever you want."

 

"So... what's a good sugary drink?"

 

"Seriously?" Isaac exploded. "Have you never been to a coffee shop before yesterday?"

 

Scott looked sheepish again. "Maybe?"

 

"What are you even doing here? Clearly not ordering coffee. What, you just, you come here to flirt with me and put an outrageous amount of money in the tip jar? For what?"

 

Scott frowned. "Do you yell at all your customers this way?"

 

Isaac ignored him, choosing instead to take the order of a gentleman waiting in line. He made an extra effort to be polite and smile, and not to yell at all.

 

There was no one else waiting to place an order. No one but Scott.

 

With a sigh, Isaac turned back to him.

 

Scott said, "I'll have a chocolate-mocha frappé. Why do you hate me?"

 

Isaac had a full minute to think of a good response while he was making Scott's drink. But the only thing he managed to come up with was the truth. "I don't hate you. But I don't want your charity."

 

"I didn't give you any charity—"

 

"You left a fifty in the tip jar!"

 

Scott's frowned deepened. Hs drink was on the counter in front of him, but he ignored it. "That's not charity. You're a good server."

 

"I just spent the last five minutes yelling at you," Isaac pointed out.

 

"Yeah," Scott said, "but you were a good server to that guy just now, and the lady yesterday. And you've yelled at me before, anyway. I'm used to it."

 

Isaac would rather not be reminded of Saturday night, thanks very much.

 

"There's nothing wrong with wanting to tip the cute guy who works at a local coffee shop," Scott added.

 

Isaac nodded at the frappé. "That's three thirty-five."

 

Scott didn't answer, just looked at Isaac with expectant brown eyes.

 

"Look," Isaac said. A group of a dozen girls walked into the shop, and Isaac knew their orders would be hell to make as the only worker. "Keep spending your dad's money on your Hugo Boss shorts and your Ray Bans, spend it on coffee, do whatever you want—but don't put any more fifty dollar bills in my tip jar. I haven't spent my life working because I want some knight to come in and save me, okay? I'm doing fine for myself. Your coffee is three dollars and thirty-five cents, Scott. Please pay for it now."

 

The girls approached the counter, orders ready. Scott looked disappointed as he, once again, counted out exact change and handed it over.

 

"It's my mom's money," he said.

 

"What?"

 

"My mom's an actress. She plays the nurse on _Room 208_. My dad split when I was young, I never knew him." The corner of his mouth raised in a humorless smile. "He certainly never gave me any money."

 

It was an effort not to gape; Scott was so open, so honest—and Isaac felt like an asshole. He'd assumed Scott could have anything he wanted, could snap his fingers and get the latest fashions, expensive cars, a penthouse suite.

 

As it turned out, Scott couldn't have everything: he could never have a real father. They had more in common than Isaac originally thought.

 

With a small wave, Scott left. Isaac turned to take the orders of the girls. When the group left, trailing one after the other, Isaac wished them a good day and glanced in the tip jar—where a twenty dollar bill was waiting for him.

 

"You've got to be kidding me," he muttered, picking up the bill. Andrew Jackson stared back at Isaac, empty eyes accented by a grotesque mustache and top hat scribbled on in black pen. On the side of the bill, in the same pen, were the words, _I tried to make him look nice, but he’s nowhere near as gorgeous as you_ — _Scott._ _P.S. I didn’t leave a fifty this time_

 

A smile was trying to work its way onto Isaac's face, and he fought very hard to keep it off. Goddamn Scott McCall.

 

Isaac spent the rest of the day working. Danny came in to join him during the afternoon shift, and they chatted easily until it was time for Isaac to punch out.

 

He hadn't been planning to watch _Room 208_ when he got home. It just sort of happened. There wasn't much on TV, and he was bored, so when he saw Nurse Melissa appear on screen, he couldn't find it in himself to change the channel.

 

Now he could see the family resemblance. Scott had her nose and forehead, her thick, dark hair. It was so odd to see her in front of him and imagine her raising Scott as a single mom—if she had indeed raised him, and not given him to some nanny to raise, the way Erica’s mom did with her younger siblings. Melissa was all sass on _Room 208_ —one of the most beloved television characters on the most watched show of all time, the sponsoring network liked to boast—and acted nothing like Scott, with his warmth and his puppy eyes.

 

Isaac wondered if Scott watched the show, and what he thought when he saw him mother making out with the town sheriff on screen. He wondered what family dinner would be like at Scott's apartment, then realized that his mother was probably in Los Angeles for most of the year, unable to spend much time with her son.

 

Isaac fingered the twenty dollar bill in his pocket. He didn't know why Scott was courting him, why he kept showing up at Hale's Coffee House, or why he seemed to care so much—but he did know that, even if rent was due the next day, he wouldn't be including today's tip in the envelope he gave his landlord.

 

******

 

The next few days proceeded the same way the others had: Scott came in during the morning lull, ordered his drink (the chocolate-mocha frappé became his favorite), flirted with Isaac despite much protest on Isaac's part, and whisked himself away. Somehow he managed every day to slip money into the tip jar. By the fourth day he began to deny it was him, and when Isaac caught him in the act he only laughed and winked as he fled the store.

 

Isaac had never been so annoyed in his life. No matter how many times he told Scott to stop leaving charity money, the other boy continued to do it. No matter how many arguments Isaac tried to engage him in, he only grinned and returned the next day.

 

After about a week of seeing Scott in Hale's Coffee House, Isaac was helping a tourist order when Scott caught his eye across the counter. He gave Isaac a wave, and that signature sheepish smile of his, and slipped something into the tip jar. Before Isaac could yell at him for leaving more money, he was gone without even ordering a drink.

 

When Isaac inspected his tips later that night, they only amounted to a few dollars. In between scattered coins and a few dollar bills was a scribbled phone number on a piece of paper.

 

******

 

Though he would have denied it to anyone who asked, Isaac had to hide his disappointment when Scott didn't come in the next day at his usual time. It was stupid of him to expect Scott to keep coming in, anyway; it wasn't as if Isaac had shown interest in him, or actually been nice at all. Still, part of him had been hoping he would continue to show up. As much as he hated the extreme tips, he appreciated Scott's company, his puppy eyes and pouty lips.

 

Erica came in just after the lunch crowd, cigarette dangling from her mouth. When Isaac warned her that Derek was working today, loading ingredients in the back, she extinguished it with the terrified air of someone who had just been threatened with capital punishment. She sat in a chair near the counter, and in between customers she talked to Isaac.

 

After some time she said, "You've never been very good at keeping secrets."

 

Isaac started. It was true: one of the reasons he'd spent so much time bruised and bloodied as a teenager was because he'd never developed skills to hide things from his father. He didn't know why Erica would be bringing that up now, though. "Huh?"

 

"You glanced at the door five times in the past minute," she informed him, smirking like she knew she'd caught him. "Waiting for someone?"

 

"No," Isaac said, too quickly. He'd never been good at lying, either.

 

"Oh, of course not. But let's pretend we're honest like best friends are supposed to be, so I can tell you he'll be back next Thursday." Erica smiled. "He's visiting his mom."

 

"Uh," Isaac said. "How—?"

 

"I know everything," Erica informed him. Catching Isaac's annoyed expression, she laughed and continued, "Boyd was talking to Scott’s best friend Stiles, and apparently Scott's been really into you ever since your little excursion at his party two weeks ago. Boyd told me Stiles said he's been coming in here every day to see you, and since yesterday he caught a flight to LA, I was thinking you might be lonely." She quirked an eyebrow. "Judging by the way you keep staring at the front door, I'd say I was right."

 

Isaac felt himself blush. It was one thing to have Scott come into Hale's and flirt with him every day—it was quite another to know that he's been talking to his friends about Isaac.

 

"I told him not to come back," Isaac supplied uselessly. "He... hasn't listened yet."

 

A customer approached the counter for a muffin. Unfortunately for Isaac, Erica hadn't forgotten the topic of conversation in the time it took Isaac to finish the order.

 

"Weird how you told him not to come back but now you're upset he isn't here," she said.

 

Isaac really, really hated her when she was right.

 

"I'm allowed to be interested in him," Isaac said defensively.

 

"That's what I'm _saying_ , Isaac, you act like there's something wrong with—"

 

"But," Isaac continued, as if she hadn't spoken, "that doesn't mean I have to start dating him and let me take him out to expensive restaurants like some sort of sugar daddy."

 

Erica looked at him as if she couldn't quite believe what he was saying. "Then _you_ pick the restaurant, Isaac. Jesus, you act—" she cut herself off.

 

"What?" Isaac prodded.

 

"You act like you're stuck in the life you're living,” Erica said. “But that hasn't been true since we lived in Beacon Hills. I don't care how used to it you are, you don't deserve a shitty life. You got yourself out of Beacon Hills; get yourself out of this slump, too." She stood to leave. "You're allowed to be happy, Isaac. You deserve to be happy. The way things are right now... you may as well still be living with your dad."

 

She gave a small smile and left the shop. Her words rang in Isaac's ears as if she was still standing next to him.

 

******

 

When Isaac got home later that day, the first thing he did was pick up the wrinkled piece of paper with Scott’s phone number. He had spent all day thinking about it, about texting Scott, letting him know he that he had missed him at Hale’s today. The slip of paper in his hands made him nervous, and he struggled to keep his breathing under control.

 

Clearly Scott wanted Isaac to contact him—he’d left his number knowing he would be gone for a few days, after all. But the thought of actually contacting Scott still made him anxious. He took a deep breath.

 

**To:** **Scott McCall**

**Some old lady left a five dollar tip today. I think she’s challenging you**

 

 

Less than a minute later, Isaac’s phone buzzed.

 

** From: Scott McCall **

**ISAAC!!!**

**YOU ACTUALLY TEXTED!!**

**What did she look like? Is she my competition?**

 

**To: Scott McCall**

**She had gray hair, a walking cane, and she was wearing three different patterns at once.**

**I can’t help who I fall for**

**From: Scott McCall**

**Hahaha!! Aw man**

**I can’t compete with that**

**Did you miss me?**

 

 

Isaac bit his lip. Well, it wasn’t as if Scott ever believed him when he lied, anyway.

 

**To: Scott McCall**

**Maybe a little**

 

**From: Scott McCall**

**:-D**

**To: Scott McCall**

**You didn’t come in for your frappe so I had to drink it myself**

**From: Scott McCall**

**Aww you had my drink all ready for me**

**That’s really cute**

**I’m in LA dude or I would’ve been there**

**Can you talk on the phone?**

Isaac said he could, and a moment later his phone lit up with Scott’s name. When he answered it Scott took up where their texting had left off. Apparently he’d been planning to tell Isaac he wouldn’t be around for a week—but when he’d gotten into Hale’s Isaac had been with a customer, and Scott was pretty sure Isaac wouldn’t have cared, anyway.

 

“I thought you must’ve liked me because of the whole thing, you know, at my party, but I wasn’t really sure, so I figured I’d leave my number and see what happened,” Scott confessed. “But you texted, so now I know your true feelings and you can never hide them again.”

Isaac couldn’t help but laugh; Scott’s confidence was catching, and his easy, playful tone relaxed Isaac instantly. He didn’t even deny his feelings—there wasn’t really a point, now. Even if he had said he didn’t like Scott they both would have caught the lie.

 

“You’re from California, right?” Scott asked. “Have you ever been to LA?”

 

“Yeah,” Isaac said, lying out on his bed. “I went there after I graduated high school to get a job. Lasted for a year before I saved up enough money to move to New York.”

 

“Did you work in a coffee place?” There were people talking in the background on Scott’s end. He shushed them and muttered something about being right back.

 

“Actually, I did. Are you with friends or something? I don’t want to interrupt.”

 

There was the sound of a door opening and a ‘thank you, monsieur,’ and then Isaac could hear the beep of a horn, as if Scott was out in the street. “They’re just my mom’s friends—we’re like, in some stupid restaurant. It doesn’t matter. I just left.”

 

“You should go have dinner with your mom.”

 

“We had dinner last night,” Scott said. “And I hate her friends. They’re really fucking typical, you know? One lady even made me kiss her on the hand. It’s like they think we’re all royalty or something.”

 

“You kind of are,” Isaac said without thinking.

 

Scott was silent for a moment.

 

“I mean,” Isaac began.

 

“Yeah, I know what you mean,” Scott said with a sigh. “And you’re kind of right. Would you believe me if I said I hate it as much as you do?”

 

Despite the fact that Scott was standing on some side street halfway across the country, completely out of view, Isaac raised an eyebrow. “Are you wearing Prada right now?”

 

Scott laughed. “Okay, fine, you’re right, I’m an asshole. But how come—just hang up on me if I piss you off, okay—how did you get to be such good friends with Erica Reyes? She has money, too.”

 

Isaac was so soothed by Scott’s voice at the other end of the phone, so electrified by it at the same time, that he almost couldn’t help his honesty. He thought of what Scott told him at Hale’s the last week, about how his dad had walked out on him, and it seemed only natural to share. “We were best friends growing up. When my mom died she... she helped me. I didn’t have anyone other than her. When she left town for New York I had to follow.”

 

“You mentioned your dad that night,” Scott began slowly.

 

“He’s the other reason I left for New York.”

 

“So you like it better than LA?” Scott asked, and the way he so smoothly changed the topic of conversation filled Isaac with relief. He never liked talking about his father. He probably never would.

 

“Honestly?” Isaac said, “I haven’t had great experiences in either one.”

 

“What?” Scott sounded personally offended. “You don’t think my party was a great experience?”

 

“I’ve never been so cock-blocked in my life,” Isaac said solemnly.

 

Scott laughed uproariously. “You’re right, that was... not good. Allison and Lydia are still laughing about it.”

 

“Well I didn’t think it was very funny.”

 

“Neither did I,” Scott said, though there was still laughter in his voice. “But I am glad I met you there. Even if you said you hated my rich people party and you yelled at me for wanting you.”

 

“I’m not going to apologize for that,” Isaac said.

 

“I wouldn’t dream of it.”

 

“I don’t want you thinking you have to give me money just because you have more than me.”

 

Scott said, “I would never think that.”

 

“That means you can’t put any more tips in the tip jar.”

 

Scott said, “Only if you let me take you out when I get back.”

 

Isaac’s heart skipped a beat.

 

“Isaac,” Scott’s voice was pleading. “Please?”

 

“Okay,” Isaac agreed after a long exhale. “But I’m paying.”

 

******

 

 

The rest of the week went by agonizingly slowly. Despite talking to Scott every day on the phone, each day was too long; he thought of Scott more than he should. They’d been getting along so well, but that was easy when they were on opposite sides of the country; the thoughts of seeing him in person again made Isaac’s stomach flip. Friday was the worst of all; their date was set for seven o’clock that night, and when Isaac thought about it he could scarcely breathe.

 

He arrived at the restaurant twenty minutes early. It was called the Full Moon, and it was the first place Isaac had ever eaten at in New York. Ever since he’d first been there, he loved it—he could only hope that Scott would love it, too. It was probably nothing like what he was used to: the lighting was bad, and Erica once described it as “dingy,” but to Isaac it was the best place in the city.

 

A waiter appeared at his table with Scott in tow. When he caught Isaac’s gaze he smiled, eyes lit up like a beacon.

 

“Hey,” he said, taking a seat. “This place is cool.”

 

Isaac instantly relaxed. “Yeah?”

 

“Yeah! It’s so fucking nice to be away from those shitty places I had to go out to eat with my mom. I love her to death, but...” he shrugged. “If someone wore a fur coat in here, they’d get punched in the face. I love that.”

 

Isaac laughed. “You love people getting punched in the face?”

 

“I love snobby assholes getting punched in the face,” Scott corrected. He gave Isaac a once over, biting down on his lip. “You look good.”

 

“Yeah, right,” Isaac said, raising his eyebrows. He was wearing worn-out jeans and an old t-shirt; he’d given Erica back the sweater and pants she’d pushed on him for the party.

 

“I’m serious,” Scott said. “You always look good. You look good without even trying. You look good in your work uniform.”

 

At this Isaac snorted. Warmth suffused his whole body, and he couldn’t help the huge smile on his face. “All right, all right, I get it, I look good.” He laughed. “You’re too nice, Scott.”

 

“That’s all I am? Nice? Not even, like, sexy, or charming, or—hey, no need to raise an eyebrow at me,” Scott grinned. “So you don’t think I’m just some rich douchebag who thinks he can get whatever he wants now?

 

“No,” Isaac said honestly. “I think I was the douchebag, actually.”

 

Scott smiled. “You never refused to make me coffee, though.”

 

 

“Well,” Isaac said, “you’re right about that.”

 

Scott must have been telling the truth about liking the Full Moon, because he never once acted like he didn’t belong there. Even with his stupid Hugo Boss shorts and his leather shoes he didn’t stick out; he was just another person having dinner. As he discussed the childhood adventures he’d had with his weirdly-named best friend, Isaac watched his face and wondered how he could ever have thought otherwise.

 

When it was time to pay Scott didn’t even take out his wallet. But he did gasp in disbelief when Isaac took out his money.

 

“You still have that?” he asked happily, examining the twenty-dollar bill from Isaac’s hands. Andrew Jackson still donned a top hat; Scott’s note was written on the side.

 

Isaac felt himself blush. “I didn’t want to spend it,” he admitted. “It felt wrong.”

 

“Well, it is a work of art,” Scott said, and he beamed.

 

“Not as good as the wolf paintings,” Isaac said. “But, yeah. It’s... important to me. I’m not spending it now, either. I like keeping it with me, though.”

 

Scott stared at him. “I like you a lot,” Scott said, and then he kissed him.

 

It was the first time they kissed since they were drunk at Scott’s party, and it was better than Isaac could have imagined. Scott’s lips were perfect—his hands in Isaac’s hair were perfect—Scott’s cologne, no doubt something that cost more than Isaac’s last paycheck, smelled perfect.

 

When they pulled apart Isaac felt a physical ache.

 

“We’re in public,” Scott reminded him in a whisper.

 

“Not in ten minutes, we won’t be,” Isaac whispered back.

 

“Fuck,” Scott murmured. “Hurry up.”

 

Isaac scrambled to hand his cash to the waiter, tapping his foot anxiously under the table while they waited to get it back. As soon as the plastic touched Isaac’s hand he grabbed Scott’s hand and pulled him out of the Full Moon.

 

“My apartment’s around the corner,” Isaac said.

 

“Anyone around to interrupt us this time?” Scott breathed as they hurried along the sidewalk.

 

“Absolutely no one,” Isaac said. He jammed his key in the lock and was kissing Scott again before the door was fully shut.

 

Scott detached from him for a moment, panting. “This is your place?” He asked, looking around. In the dim light the apartment looked worse than Isaac remembered leaving it that morning. Scott put his lips back on Isaac’s. “It’s nice,” he said in between kisses.

 

Isaac laughed as they fell onto the bed. “No, it’s not.”

 

“Yeah, it is,” Scott murmured. “I have to do my laundry, too. We’ll do it together sometime.”

 

“Is that what you really want to talk about right now?” Isaac asked.

 

“No,” Scott said with a laugh. “But I still think this place is nice. Because it’s yours.”

 

It was a testament to Isaac’s trust for Scott that he didn’t even doubt him.


End file.
